


The Private Journal of Joseph Dawson

by adabsolutely



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adabsolutely/pseuds/adabsolutely
Summary: Title: The Personal Journal of Joseph DawsonAuthor: Christmas cactusWritten for:  Amand_rCharacters:  Methos, Duncan, Joe, Amanda, evil immortals, Joe’s descendantsRating: PG, some strong language, Highlander style violenceBeta duty: MackiedockieAuthor's Notes:  Merry Christmas, Amand_r! Thank you for hanging in here with us all these years.  Good riddance 2016.Summary:  Searching for meaning, vengeance, and Joe Dawson’s private journal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amand_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/gifts).



7th April 2016, Seacouver 

_ It was a call I hated to make, but I’d promised MacLeod.  It turned out he’d already heard about it twice, first a lurid radio news flash, and then a pleading text from Walter Graham. _

**_Duncan, we’ve lost Claudia.  Please call me.  WG_ **

_ By the time he arrived with Methos in tow MacLeod’s anger had peaked.  He looked  weary, but the sorrow was balanced with acceptance.  Then I told him that Walter had challenged her killers and lost.  His knuckles blanched as he tighten his grip around the edge of the bar.   _

_ “Killers?” _

_ “Yeah.  It’s an experienced immortal with a group of three students hunting together.  They target young or unarmed immortals.  The way they took out Walter --” _

_ “He was really good.” _

_ “-- they didn’t exactly follow the rules.” _

_ “Of course not!” Methos shouted, then sighed loudly in disgust, but did not say ‘there are no rules’ as he sometimes schooled MacLeod. _

_ “Names, Joe?” Those eyes. _

_ “This didn’t come from me.” _

_ “Understood.” _

_ “The students called themselves Balthasar, Melchoir, and Gaspar.” _

_ “Joe!” _

_ “Seriously.” _

_ I could see the light bulb moment as Methos reacted, “Damn! They must be students of the Reverend Kilkenny.  I thought he’d given up on taking students after his last cock-up.” _

_ “A student of Kilkenny’s was their teacher.  Jon Comstock of Chelmsford, Essex.  Only known student of Kilkenny with head still attached.  Like Kilkenny he teaches his students to hunt the young to build up their strength.  Not an unusual MO."  
_

_ “True enough,” Methos conceded.  “But I find the misuse of ancient names really gets on my nerves.” _

_ “You’d prefer Moe, Larry, and Curly?”  _

_ “Joe! You’re disparaging comic genius.” _

_ Duncan spoke softly, “I’ll go with beheaded, dead, and departed.”  _

 

May 2066, Paris

Six storeys up the Watchers Archive, on the alley side of the building, a two person hovercraft held position near Amanda’s chosen entry point. She wielded the tools of her trade with the finesse of centuries, while Methos clung to the Airsled’s rails.  

“Manda could you hurry, please? All I need is a couple minutes inside.  It doesn’t have to be beautiful.”

“Yes it does.  When I’m done no one will know that it’s happened.  You see the advantage?”

“There’s no point in arguing with you is there?”

“Not unless you just enjoy it.”

After two decades spent searching Watcher haunts trying to locate and appropriate Joe’s personal journal, Methos’ legendary patience had been eroded by the nagging fear that the journal would never be recovered. Unthinkable.  So he’d finally felt desperate enough to accept his favourite thief’s help. Though at the moment he was having third and fourth thoughts.

“Here you go!” Amanda slid the panel gently inward then abruptly pushed Methos through the opening unceremoniously.  “Five minutes! Hurry!” His feet touched tile at a run.

“Slow down, hurry up…” muttered, dashing through the dark corridor to room 638 where he located the desk of the vacationing technician whose computer he was targeting.  There he swapped out a dust plug card with his own equally plain appearing data card.  When the tech returned next week and connected with the network Methos would establish remote access and could search the Watcher archive index for the whereabouts of Joe’s personal journal.

The whole operation took six minutes, one minute more than Amanda had allowed.  When she slid the panel back in place and fastened it with her customized sealant, Methos felt the operation had gone smoothly.  He clambered on behind her and held on for the flight.

He whispered in her ear, “That was almost too easy.”

Amanda’s comeback was lost in the swish as they jetted off toward the left bank. Methos appreciated the glittering lights of Paris below, not even mentioning his freezing backside during their escape.  They arrived at Methos’ garret in less than an hour of their departure, porting her hovercraft on the apartment roof.  

They entered the small but fashionable quarters where he lived as Adam Jason (AJ) Davies, a Welsh artist and restorer of heritage paintings.  

“Something to drink?” He walked to the liquor cabinet which was wedged in between two book shelves. “Fuck!”

“No, just a drink, thank you,” primly.

“My journal! It’s gone!”

“The Watchers?”

“Who else would ignore the art and take a journal?”  He slapped the empty space where his journal should be with his palm.

“Something tells me your hack isn’t going to work.  Who did you tell?”

“Just you.” 

“Time to get a new device, darling.”

“By all the...time for Plan B from Outer Space!”

“I remember the name, but not the plot.”

“Plot? No, I’m off book now.” He sighed and poured them both a drink.

 

8 April 2016, Vancouver

Their silent drive out of Seacouver painfully reminded Methos of when he lost  Alexa, as that heart break memory and the memory of Claudia tangled in their shared history.  At the border crossing he worried that the surly expression on Duncan’s face would have them turned away.  But when they came in range of the camera aimed into their car MacLeod’s face relaxed and they were allowed to travel north to Vancouver.  

_ Despite that I flew into Vancouver ahead of my immortals, I almost didn’t find a safe place to watch the fight in time.  Borrowed a couple young Watchers from Archy’s division.  They cleared the alley of three people, two making a transaction and easily persuaded to vanish.  The third was an elderly soul living in a box.  She valiantly held her ground until the first clash of metal, then wisely allowed Tim’s help --  easing her away from the danger zone.  _

_ Let’s face it.  The reason immortals can fight in an urban setting and get away with it has a lot to do with us. Watchers. _

_ The Highlander and the Oldest have different fighting styles.  Methos fought silently ignoring his unknown (a hawk faced ginger we called Bal*) opponent’s attempt to engage.  Duncan on the other hand relished the banter with his opponent, Gaspar, aka Carl Land, an arsehole with a swastika on his forehead. _

_ MacLeod glides. That’s how it appears. He slides from here to there.  So smoothly that he terrifies. They breath harder, hearts stammer. Hearts that have beat for centuries. Muscles tighten, feet falter.  MacLeod glides. _

_ Methos hacks.  That’s what they see.  The earnest hacking of a scholar with a blade too large.  He deceives.  They are pumped, excited!  Song of the blade dances in their heads.  Eager for the opening, they over extend.  Methos hacks. _

_ The last clash of steel rang and died before lightning struck MacLeod’s chest.  The Highlander grimaced and fell to his knees.  Not down long, a minor quickening, I’d have to say, as promptly as he returned to his feet.  He did not approach the other pair of fighters.  He did not interfere. _

_ Methos retreated -- almost against the alley wall.  Bal struck.  His blade striking brick -- Methos had vanished. Ducked down. Thrust. Pinned Bal.  Breaking his silence, “There were three in your little pack. Where is he?” Twisting the blade. _

_ “You’ll not find her….” a final gasp. Methos stared at the body. _

_ “What the hell are you waiting for?” Duncan demanded to know. _

_ “You! We can’t afford to both be enervated with a third hunter out there.” _

_ “Hate it when you’re right.” _

_ “No good, Mac.  You don’t want to live a hate filled life.  Get on with it.”  All I could hear of MacLeod’s reply was a grumble.  Then he obliged Methos, removing the second man’s head.  Methos retreated from the second brief light show.  This time MacLeod stayed down until Methos returned and helped him to his feet. _

_ “No time for praying, up you go.” _

_ “Auch, that one was nasty! What a way to start a day.” _

_ “Almost as good as a beer.” _

_ MacLeod looked green, shook his head.   _

_ Their gibes continued as they stumbled out of the alley.  I mobilized a lightning quick cleanup (sorry, I know, the oldest Watcher joke.)  Tim reassured the elderly lady that their “filming” was done as she returned to her home turf. _

_ *Turned out he was the one calling himself Melchoir not Balthasar, original name Eben Pendleston.   
_

 

February 2092, Barcelona

“Private journals have never been strictly kosher.”  Methos refilled Amanda’s wine flute and then his own. “They teach you that at the academy.  But Joe had gotten to that certain age where the need to record your thoughts wins out over ephemeral bureaucracy.

“Amy told me she surrendered his journal to the Watchers when she retired.”

“And you believed her?  How unlike you.”

“I must be getting old.”

“No! So, Joe has grandchildren?”

“A granddaughter, and two great grandsons.  One is a marine, the other a Watcher.”

“My bet is on the Watcher.”

“I’m working on him and them.”

“Them? The Watchers? I thought you were never going to work for the Watchers again.”

“Well, we’ve both had a change of heart.  They let me visit my journals if I work for them.”

“Methos, really! I can get them back for you.”

“No, no. I can’t take care of all of them. I have thousands of journals.”

“If you invented the Watchers just to take care of your journals, I don’t want to know.”

“No! I didn’t.”  He passed her the cheese plate.  “I just wanted someone tracking my brothers.”

“If I wasn’t tipsy I’d slap you.”

“And if I weren’t tipsy I’d enjoy it.”

“Promises promises.  So this is plan B.” 

Methos laughed then nodded.  

Amanda moved about Methos’ sunroom studying his eclectic collection of artifacts, books, and personal mementos. 

“Have you talked to Duncan lately?”

Methos nodded.  “Called him on his birthday.  He looked tired.”

“When Josh passes, Duncan is going to need our support.”

Methos fiddled with the dishes.  “It’s always the price we pay for loving a mortal.”

 

3rd August 2016, London

_ The Shy Elf was a tiny pub in Soho that my buddy Murray held onto fiercely against the avalanche of gentrification surrounding it.  I played and sang blues there each evening that I could after spending the days tracking MacLeod and Methos as they hunted Claudia and Walter’s other killers.  I couldn’t understand their insistence that neither of the immortals they crossed blades with in Vancouver had taken either of their friends quickenings.  Made no sense.  But then a lot of things don’t when it comes to immortals. _

_ On one particular night Methos was in residence in his own preferred corner of the Elf.  His back to the wall and a beer in hand.  After midnight I took a break and joined him.   _

_ “How goes it partner?” _

_ “The trail isn’t just cold, it’s frozen.  I tell you, Joseph, 2016 is cursed!” _

_ “Now that sounds superstitious of you.” _

_ “Nope. I was born long before they invented superstition.” _

_ “I suspect you were an early adopter.” _

_ Methos made a rude noise and glared at me.  I asked him, “So what’s next?” _

_ “The teacher of the teacher.” _

“So what’s our plan?” Methos asked Duncan as they walked down the brick road leading to the Chelmsford church, long coats flapping with the brisk breeze. 

“Invite him off of holy ground.”

“No plan then.  You should go into politics.”

“I’m going to let him see I’ve gone sloppy with grief.”

“Hm.  Could work, but that trick has been tried a time or a thousand.”

“I’ll give it my best.”

“I’m anticipating a West End performance.”

“No tomato tossing.”

_ Archy and I had pieced the timeline together.  Red eye flight, 7th April, Jon Comstock of Chelmsford fled Canada with female student, passport name was Clarice Heron -- she still appeared confused when boarding.  Earlier that day Comstock and three students challenged Claudia Jardine (unarmed) and Walter Graham leaving a rough venue on  Abbott Street. (Probably listening to blues…)  Heron took Jardine first, while the other three held Graham at bay.  It was probably her first quickening, she appeared overwhelmed.  Graham retreated momentarily.  (This must we when he texted MacLeod.)  Graham then returned to fight.  A superior fighter, Graham was attacked by all three male fighters.  (If it holds true that an immortal can recognize an acquaintance’s quickening when they take their killers head, then it would follow that Comstock took Graham’s.) _

_ MacLeod and Methos hunted all summer. Mac told me the meeting with Kilkenny was a surreal affair.  The priest insisted he didn’t know the immortals they were searching for, didn’t know Methos whom he should have recognized as Benjamin Adams, and actually didn’t believe in immortals. _

_ “I invited him on an outing to test that last claim, but as they sometimes say, he would not be moved.  And neither of us of really needed a fruit cake’s quickening.” _

Three nights after the church visit Duncan walked into the Elf while Joe played to an enthusiastic crowd.  He bought a beer at the bar, nodded to Joe as he made his way passed the small stage, weaving through the tiny packed pub to a table against the far wall.  There he found Methos sitting, back to the wall, head resting on folded hands as if in prayer.

“Which God?” Duncan asked.  

“Any that will listen,” Methos’ replied, a time honoured exchange between them. 

“So.”

“Yep.”  

“Here we be.”  They both sighed.

So they drank beer and  listened to Joe play songs they knew and loved, and that reflected their current mood.  Three songs later, Duncan suggested, “Maybe it’s time to stop the hunt.”

“They do seem to have gone to ground.  Time to practice patience. Reminds me of one of Joe’s favorite jokes, the one about the starving buzzards on a fence. You heard this one?” Duncan nodded but Methos continued anyway.  “The little buzzard said to the big buzzard, ‘Patience my arse, I’m going to kill something!’” 

Duncan smile at the tired joke.  “I think Joe says ass instead of arse.”

“That makes no sense -- wait! They were going to kill a donkey? Not very tasty.”

A genuine laugh this time.  “And a waste of a good pack animal.”

When Dawson joined them later they were on the edge of tipsy.

 

Solstice 2092, Victoria BC,  Canada

Methos tucked Joseph Dawson’s journal into his computer bag as the call for his flight pinged on his phone. The hop over to Vancouver Island took longer waiting to board than the flight.  

Since Josh’s death five months ago he and Amanda had tag teamed Duncan with calls and messaging.  Enough to assure themselves he couldn’t feel alone. Neither made light of his sorrow, both knowing the emptiness of losing a mortal partner.

At the Victoria airport Methos rented a small car which motored him north and slightly inland to MacLeod’s tree shrouded house of cedar and glass.  

Greeted at the door by the man himself, Duncan stepped back to let him inside.  “Good to see you,” both murmured.  Duncan lay down his sword to hug his old friend, then grabbed his bag.  “Come on, you’ve got to see my view from upstairs.”

It was impressive, looking down over an ocean of cedars to the mucky waters of the Straight.  

Methos placed Joseph’s journal on a small end table between the chairs.  “Happy Birthday.”

“Wow, Joe’s missing diary.  How long have you had this?”

“Not long.  I accepted it from Joe’s great grandson on behalf of the Watchers.  Then I made them a very nice copy.”

“In Joe’s handwriting, no doubt.”

“Oh, there was plenty of doubt.  But I’ve been copying my own journal’s too and letting them swipe them so they can eventually stop robbing me.”

“Pot-kettle?”

Methos smirked, but nodded.  “Amanda has got me convinced I need to keep better hold of my journals. And revamp the dying art of private libraries -- make them come back into style.”

“Good.  Tell me about Joe’s grandson.”

“Great grandson.  Michael is 51, has three mostly grown children, including one named Joseph.  Michael is my Watcher.  He know’s who I am.”

Duncan nodded and smiled.  “That’s interesting.”  He waved a hand toward the chairs facing the ocean view.

After seating themselves on MacLeod’s old fashioned over stuffed chairs, Methos picked up Joe’s journal, opening it to the first of several places marked with paper scraps, “I’ve marked, for our evening’s entertainment, several entries where Joe proclaims himself a grumpy old man.”

“An interesting theme,”  Duncan said, dubious grin half suppressed.  Methos read.

“This is from 2015:

_ Damn, everywhere you look people are running around with phones to their ears or eyes glued to their phone screen.  I’ve seen folks -- even couples sitting at dinner staring at their separate little virtual worlds instead of talking.  I know I sound like a grumpy old man, so be it. I am what I am." _

Methos turned to another bookmarked page and continued.

“This is from 2028:

_ Maybe I’ve gone soft in the head in my old age.  We found the wretch of a girl who took Claudia’s head, Clarice Heron.  She’s been in that Islay convent all these years.  Still no idea what happened to her teacher. Not gonna tell Mac.  I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for her, still I don’t feel like she had a choice." _

“Everyone has choice!”

Methos concurred, “Yes. But not everyone knows that they have choice.”

“Joe knew that,” Duncan whispered. 

“And for my next selection, from 2038, eight years before he died:

_ I’m pretty damned old now, maybe a little cranky, but it makes my heart feel full again to see MacLeod let someone into his life after all this time and after this last war.  I thought the worst was up for us, we were all going to hell in a handbasket, and Mac managed to find a gem while fighting it.  Josh is brave, smart, empathetic. They’re well matched.  Much of Josh’s innovative coding saved us from tyranny. _

_ I am, however, a bit concerned about the amount of time Methos and Amanda are spending together….Yeah, I figured you’d read this someday.  Laugh it up kid. _

"And you’ll be appalled to see that Joe used an emoticon here.”

“This is a wonderful gift, Methos.  Tapadh leat, mo charaid.”

 

_ Adam normally shuns vengeance  as a dangerous luxury, but the first time I actually saw him take a head (which has only occurred three times in the thirty years I’ve watched him) he fought a cheater named Jon Comstock who came at him with the help of two students.  Imagine their surprise when mild mannered Adam pulled out a Glock, shot both students, then in a brief brutal fight liberated Comstock’s quickening.   _

_ Afterward, I bought him a beer in hopes of getting the story out of him.  Apparently, Comstock had used the same dirty tricks on two friends of his and MacLeod’s back in my great grandfather’s day.  Over the years I’ve come to know Joe Dawson well through Adam’s stories.  All it takes is a beer or five!  
_


End file.
